The Return
by torri.oats
Summary: After a year of self-discovery, Olivia Pope returns to DC a changed woman.
1. Chapter 1

_I suck at titles, which is why this has a sucky title. I love the character of Olivia Pope. Two weeks ago, I saw something about Olivia resetting her life. Everyone was up-in-arms assuming it was about that creep-eyed character/"actor" who shall remain nameless, but I thought it meant getting back to who Olivia Pope was. I am probably totally wrong. It isn't the first time and it won't be the last. _

_I've been itching to write something for fierce Olivia and Kerry Washington, so I guess this is it. _

It's been a long, hard road, winding and ragged. There were days her body refused to move from her bed, depression slowly squeezing the life out of her. Sunlight burned her eyes. Mocking voices filled her nights, laughing as she cried.

She tried to eat from time to time to maintain strength, but little stayed in her ever-shrinking stomach. She was withering away, her outside racing to match her soulless inside. Such despair, so much pain and when she wanted to give up, when she had no energy to climb the mountains ahead, it was his voice she heard. Soothing and encouraging, having more faith in her than she had in herself. It was necessary. All of it. She was broken and down, but it allowed her to rebuild her foundation - to find herself.

It's been more than 365 days since the last time she saw him. 363 since she boarded the plane to destination unknown. 362 since she began to refill the shell of the woman she'd become. In the wilderness and away from all the noise that filled her life in DC, she found freedom and acceptance; she discovered the real Olivia Pope.

Swept away in the non-stop chaos that surrounded her old life, she lost her grip on her meticulously crafted image. Like a raging tornado, the father, the mother, the man who tore her down, flung her wildly and uncontrollably like a weightless doll; she no longer knew which was up or down. She could not identify good from bad. The white hat, to which she clung, was badly soiled and no matter how hard she struggled to keep it clean, how hard she scrubbed it to the point of sacrificing her only true desire in the quest of purity, it remained a shade of grey. And that is okay. Now.

Her self-imposed exile, which most would perceive as running, was a necessary part of her personal journey. Her whole life, until that point, had been about pleasing others and being someone else's idea of "perfection", to the point where her entire being was about what everyone else wanted and needed her to be. She had to learn to accept her flaws – to seek her own fulfillment. When the blinders were removed and the silence allowed her to hear; after the months of soul searching, of crying and raging, she came to realize she did not love herself.

For someone as formidable as she, the fixer of problems, the savior of careers and people, the admission was devastating. It was her lowest point, and with each attempt at a cohesive explanation, she found herself crafting an equally persuasive counterargument until she realized the arguments were excuses. As cliché as it sounds, it was the first day of the rest of her life. The beginning of her journey toward forgiveness, but she had to go further back, to dig out the diseased roots of the weeds that were strangling her present, threatening to overtake her future.

She didn't fully appreciate the impact her childhood had her on her. It was the words and actions that slowly caused her unraveling. The whispers from, she can say it now, her abusers, that led her down a path that she never thought she'd travel. The constant push to be better than twice as good, to aim higher, to stick with her own because she, a Princeton and Georgetown educated woman, was nothing more than "the help". The words whose weight should have held no power, peeled away at her until she was nothing more than raw, exposed nerves. Words which were reinforced by the man who choked her, lambasted her for her decisions and told her over and over all the things she was doing wrong. They ground her down into a pile of dust, blew on what was left and watched as the scattered pieces of her soul landed on the ground.

She was good, but not good enough. She was only a "fixer", when she could have held more power. She, who walked the White House hallways with fierce independence and enviable outward confidence, was the maid they called when they needed her to clean up their messes.

The worst, the absolute worst part of it all was the physical abuse. As she recalled the abuse of the recent past, she had to travel back into the most remote corners of her mind to access buried memories of her childhood. The time her father yanked her arm out of its socket for playing a wrong note on the piano. The slap across her face for messing around with that "Johnson boy" who was "so far beneath" her. The ice water baths to toughen her up. Sleep deprivation. Hiding of food because she was getting "too plump around the middle". The signs, they were all there, so when she asked herself why she was so willing to accept abuse without fighting back, she traced it right back to its roots: the father. He had been left behind and she would deal with him later, her first priority was the man who flew out of town with her, in search for his own "light".

When his hands first made contact with her, pushing her down on the ground so hard she bounced before banging her head against a nearby table, she excused it. They were, after all, tousling and accidents happen. When he used her as a human shield, she chalked it up to the heat of the moment when actions sometimes occur before the brain has a chance to catch up. Choking her was out of anger because of something she did. Calling her out in front of her friends for using sex to get what she wanted from him was because his feelings were hurt. She turned his behavior inward, accepting responsibility for actions that were entirely his.

But on the plane, as she thought about the man whom she didn't love, whose face she could barely stand and whose whiny voice was a constant, gnawing headache in the back of her head, she acknowledged she was just like the women in the shelters where she volunteered in college. She was Abby, whose sharp tongue, wit and toughness masked a woman who was nearly beaten to death by her husband. She was a survivor of domestic violence.

She turned to him long before they landed and said in a very calm and clear voice, one she did not recognize as her own, "When we land, you'd better run fast and far because you will be hunted down and killed." She watched his face drop, and just as quickly, the corners of his lips turned up.

"Stop joking, Olivia. It's going to be you and me-"

"There is no you and me. And I meant what I said." She returned her attention to her iPad as his eyes remained focused her on her. He unbuckled his seatbelt and moved close. Unsure of what would come next, she flinched and turned her body into herself, making his target as small as she could. Her mind raced and she looked around frantically, for a weapon, for help. Finding just enough space between them to get to the cockpit, she raced past him and knocked on the door. As it opened, she released the breath she'd been holding and plastered a smile on her face. "Do you mind if I sit up here with you?"

After charming small talk and friendly banter, her tone turned all business. She forcefully instructed the pilot to divert the plane to dispose of the other passenger. He protested at first, but she listed all the reasons he should do as she's instructed, the most important of which was her status as Rowan Pope's daughter. She watched the fear cross his face and stay, and when she was sure he was listening, she told him where to land.

She remembered the village from her teenage years when she and her father took "vacations". To some extent they were just that, time for the remaining Popes to get away and bond, but it wasn't until she was much older that she became aware that some of his most destructive business was conducted in the secret caverns beneath their second home.

There was an older man, a caretaker, who maintained their house. As a child she called him Mr. Candy because of his ability to make her favorite treats fall out of her clothing; she has never figured out how he did it. On her last visit, when she was 18, he slipped her his contact information. It was their secret, but his meaning was clear: if she needed anything, anything at all, she was to contact him.

She needed something. She needed Jake gone so she was free of him and other women would not suffer abuse at his hands. So she e-mailed Mr. Candy, and as they approached the hidden landing strip, she saw the older man waving his cane up at her.

She was finally safe and that's something she hadn't felt in a very long time. She exited the cockpit and debarked the plane, with Jake right on her heels asking question after question, none of which she answered. She stopped right in front of the old man and he bent down to embrace her. He whispered, "Is that him?" She nodded subtly in response.

She introduced the two men with a false smile, the one on Mr. Candy's face mirrored her own. She turned then, with a swing of her hair and waved goodbye over her shoulder. Her spine was straighter as she ignored the pleas coming from behind her.

Hours later, she received a two word e-mail from Mr. Candy, "It's handled."

All of that is in her past and now, as she stands in the middle of her new bedroom eyeing her chosen outfit for the day one last time, she can't help smiling as she thinks of how far she's come. She is whole now, but not complete.

She never believed people when they said, "Everything happens for a reason." There were some things that defied all reason, but looking at the woman she's become, the journey was worth it. Everything in her life has led her to him.

If she had not left, there would have been no progress, only the constant cycle of love and loss, painful breakups, incredible lovemaking. She loved, that much is true, but she did not love well. She loved the best way she knew how which was so much less than he deserved; so much less than she wanted to give. She was afraid of letting him see her, of giving too much because he was married and the guilt, the guilt was so heavy. But she couldn't stay away and it became a cruel game with only losers. No one saw her then, not even Olivia. When she looked in the mirror all duct taped together, it was the idea of Olivia Pope, magical and strong, reflected back at her.

Today, it is the authentic Olivia Pope she sees. The woman with strength and vulnerabilities; love to give and open to receiving; intelligence; fierceness; a woman who isn't trying to be all things to all people.

Olivia Pope.

She slips into her new thong. She used to hate them and opted for more modest underwear, but he loved them. Thongs had given them so much naughty pleasure; she blushes just thinking about it. There were times when they were so overcome with desire for one another, he would simply slide them to the side and enter her, enjoying the friction the soft fabric created. The way they moved against each other with their own perfect, frantic rhythm, as though they would be caught at any moment, left her wanting him again and again. She fans herself briefly, the mere thought of their bodies re-connecting already having an affect.

She slowly slides on her hold ups, something he loved doing for her. There were few things more erotic than watching his fingers dance along her skin at an agonizingly slow pace. His lips would follow, kissing her exposed skin right before it disappeared beneath the nylon. Somehow his face always ended up between her thighs, followed by his tongue, darting in and out of his mouth, in and out of her body, sucking, licking, biting until she could no longer form a coherent thought. He could stay down there for hours, but she always pushed him away with what little strength she had left, and playfully admonished him for "making her late". Yet, she never told him to stop; he never would.

It's the little things she's missed most about him. As she fastens her bra, she remembers how many he ripped from her body. The way his hands massaged her breasts, tweaked her nipples. How his breath tickled her neck as he "adjusted" her.

She's chosen red undergarments today. It's his favorite color on her. While the rest of the world saw the buttoned up Olivia Pope, he saw the beautiful, sexy woman who belonged only to him.

She looks at the navy colored suit one last time before pulling the skirt from its hanger. It lands just above her knee with a bit of a side split. It's professional, yet sexy. As she zips it up, she runs her hands along the material, smoothing invisible wrinkles. She stares at herself in the full-length mirror and turns from side to side, tugging at the hem.

It's been too long since she's worn a skirt. In her professional capacity, pantsuits were always preferred. She had to be the toughest in the room and exude a certain amount of confidence and invulnerability, pants set the right tone. Today, she needs to feel confident and feminine.

She takes her time buttoning a light blue and white striped blouse, leaving one button unfastened, then two, then three as she debates how much skin to show; what message should she send?

Her shirts often serve as an additional layer of armor, protecting her from what the day would bring. As she yanks the shirt from her body, she realizes she doesn't need protection from him, because he doesn't hurt her. He loves…loved…her. She sniffles, hoping he loves her still, not prepared if he no longer does.

She quickly wiggles out of the skirt, and heads to her closet filled with her newly purchased, colorful wardrobe. Her eyes scan all of the possibilities, the reds, the blues, the oranges and greens. She is drawn to a particular coral dress. The simple, yet elegant sleeveless, asymmetric, crepe-jersey dress is the perfect choice that shows just enough skin, accentuates her curves while allowing her to show off her newly defined muscles.

As she takes it off the hanger, and looks it over, she realizes there is no other choice. It fits more perfectly than when she first purchased it. In the back of her mind, she knows the affect the color will have. She finishes her look with a pair of nude heels and gold accessories, all purchased by him.

Today, she leaves her curly hair in its natural state, something she rarely does. The world sees her hair straightened and unthreatening, but he loved it when she wore it wild and free for him. He would bury his nose in its softness, inhaling her coconut scent. She looks in the mirror again and this time, she smiles. Her hands trace the edges of her hair as she tucks a few uncontrolled strands behind her ear. She stares at the woman and frowns. Something is missing.

Her eyes dart around her bedroom and land on the bouquet of white peonies on her nightstand. She quickly grabs one, cuts the stem and adds a simple flower to her hair. He will have no choice but to love her again.

She gives herself a final look in the mirror. This is Olivia Pope. Broken down and built back up. Real. She grabs her keys and purse, and heads toward her front door. She stops and places a hand on the door, focusing on her breathing. She fought for herself and won. Now, she has to fight for them. She slowly opens the door. Sans gladiator armor and a strut that is all her own, she is not magical or a fixer or a savior of careers and people, she is just a woman prepared to do battle for her only love.


	2. Chapter 2 -- Fitz's POV

For the past few days, or maybe it's been weeks, he's felt different. The suffocating sense of foreboding that's burrowed its way into his spirit and made itself at home, is reduced to an occasional flicker. Most people would attribute the difference to the early stages of healing, but those people haven't a clue how great his loss, how debilitating his pain. He knows this feeling, but he can't allow himself to hope. Not just yet.

Not a day has passed when he hasn't cried for all he's lost in the past year; the moments playing over and over in his mind like a scratched record, starting at the same spot, then looping back to the beginning. Always, the last image he sees is himself from afar kneeling in the middle of a pile of smoking rubble, the pain so acute, he feels it to this day. It never lessens. He tries hard to finish what the record will not play, but his thoughts are filled with paralyzing "if onlys", his heart so lonely, him, so broken.

Somehow, he's managed to crawl out of bed each morning and slide one foot in front of the other. That's how he gets from one place to the next these days; he slides because anything more requires the will he just does not possess. They call him a zombie now, the Zombie President with a chuckle, a running joke with the press.

He doesn't laugh. He doesn't live. He's breathing because he has to, for his two remaining children, for the country that believed him to be the man Olivia always said he was. He's eating because of the constant threat of a feeding tube that hangs over his head. Exercising because his broken heart is still so very weak and his doctor warned it may cease beating at any time. Existing for his children and the people who elected him. If only they could see how great he is at faking it. A zombie he is, just getting by.

This isn't the way he planned it. He was so confident that they'd find a way to build their family together, in the White House with romantic weekends in Vermont, but she was always so much more realistic; cynical, he teased at the time. She warned it would end badly and listed all the reasons why in that damned notebook she loved. The country would never accept her as First Lady. His children would never love or respect her. Her hue was unacceptable to the party establishment.

He belonged to everyone but her, that's what she said so sadly and he sometimes yelled in response, "I belong to you!" He didn't understand what she meant until he had to stand on that stage so soon after his son's death and assure the country they would get through "this nation's darkest hour together". He could not grieve because they needed his strength. He could not collapse because he had to carry the weight of a country on his shoulders. He belonged to them, it was true, but he longed to have only her love.

The loss of a child is something every parent fears, for him it was a distant fear. It could happen, but not really; tragedy struck other people. In the public eye, he thought his eldest son, with all the security, was immune to death and that gave him a level of comfort. Hindsight showed his comfort was really complacency in its most clever disguise. To watch his eldest child helplessly slip from this world into the next, he thought it would break him.

That 's not what did it. That's not what broke him. He had faith that in his time of need she would be there with the perfect soothing words and her calming touch. As much as he hurt, as devastated as he was, he knew, together, they could heal each other.

It wasn't the death of the son that killed him; it was her temporary absence. He'd become a series of spider cracks, forced to hold himself together for everyone's sake but his own. What America saw in those first days in the tall, strong, Zombie President who'd grown an affinity for a bit of facial stubble, longer, curlier hair that had more grey than ever, was the ghost she left behind.

After a month of walking around aimlessly, barely able to communicate; after a month of pacing in circles at night and praying to a God he no longer believed in; after a month of crying and raging, drinking and grieving, he was faced with the reality that the absence he thought was temporary, was permanent. It was a moment for him that shifted everything.

He had to accept that she had truly given up on the dream and he was alone. With acceptance came focus. On being the man the people elected. On being the father his children needed. He became an effective leader; tougher and decisive, hardened by the hand he'd been dealt.

With acceptance, did not come forgiveness or peaceful nights. It didn't bring genuine smiles or the fun, playful version that those who knew him before his great losses were drawn to. Nor did it come with the easygoing boss who trusted his advisors. His constant frown, skepticism and eagerness to argue over the most mundane things made life hell for those who worked closely with him. Loyal staff members tendered resignations, which he gladly accepted with harsh parting words to their "traitorous asses".

He was never that guy. His father was the tyrant with the booming voice and heavy hand. The man who fired people on a whim. His father is who Fitz became. After a particularly bad series of days when he fired several key members of his administration, it was Cyrus who awakened him with the simple question, "What if she comes back?"

It wasn't just a question; it was a possibility.

There's always a catalyst for change, and for him, it was the possibility of getting one more chance to get it right with her. He'd already lost a child who may not have known how loved he was by his father. With Olivia, there was still hope to get it right.

He'd had dreams of her for the past month or so, and they frightened him, not because their content, but the implication. Their roles in his dreams were reversed. She was the one who was married to the wrong man and living a false life with him. She was the one who kept saying over and over that a divorce was coming.

For the first few nights, the husband had no face. His reveal was slow coming. First he saw the back of his head, a poor attempt to cover a bald spot. He was a tall man who stretched his neck to give the illusion of being taller while somehow, simultaneous appearing so much smaller. Eyes that haunted; eyes that terrified. Finally, the face: Jake.

In the darkness, when his mind was supposed to be at rest, he was forced to walk in her shoes.

It was Jake who summoned Fitz, the fixer, to clean up their messes.

It was Jake who became overly affectionate with the woman Fitz loved, playing it up for the cameras as they announced the pending birth of America's baby.

It was Fitz who had to trust her words of love and affection spoken to him, while her body continued to share a bed with his enemy.

And when he was repeatedly de-humanized by Jake who referred to him as a man-whore, it was Olivia who stood by mutely.

In his awakened state, after spending so many nights walking around in her shoes, experiencing life through her eyes, he felt her pain; understood her conflict. No matter how many ways he tried to justify his decisions, the result was still the same: he never gave her more than false hope.

He's replayed their conversations over and over. Not the sweet words or lofty promises they've exchanged, those few moments when she opened up to him. When she confessed she wasn't "this person", he hadn't thought of how she betrayed her values and morals to be with him. Or all the times she confided that her greatest fear was being left alone, yet that's exactly what he did each time he denied her publicly, each time he snuck out through the back door of her apartment building. How could she believe in his undying love when he kept her hidden in the shadows of a life he obviously wanted more than he would admit?

He is standing in his bedroom, when he hears the squeak of the door as it opens and then closes with a quiet click. For the fiftieth time, he makes a mental note to have maintenance take care of it. He closes his eyes, waiting for Mellie to say something, but he smells the sweet, subtle scent of her perfume. He shakes his head; it's just another dream.

He squeezes his eyes tightly, breathes deeply and prepares for another disappointment. Turning slowly he repeats a mantra in his head, "Please let her be real. Please let her be real," fully expecting to awaken with a scream and in a cold sweat. But when he opens his eyes, he sees her.

Their eyes connect; their breath catches. It is real.

His eyes take her in from the bottom, starting with her feet and her newly polished toenails peeking through the holes in her nude colored shoes. Her legs extend forever. God, her legs, so toned; he almost can't continue, his gaze stuck in one place, but he does.

To the curve of her hips, the perfect resting place for his arms when he holds her so close. Higher still, to the hint of skin just above her breasts that's tastefully exposed and her arms, he can't help noticing how she's worked out. As if the world needed another reason to fear and admire Olivia Pope, from her extraordinary mind, to her fearlessness to now, her physical presence that's not just her aura, it's the toned body that tells anyone that may approach her that she can take care of herself.

Her neck, is it longer? He will never get enough of it; kissing, licking, sucking, worshipping. Her lips, she's changed her lipstick shade and it looks good on her. Just a hint of orange and gloss, making them appear plumper. If he could move, he would march over to her and reclaim what is his. He takes in her cheekbones; how are they more pronounced?

It's her eyes that tell the most revealing story. There's love and pain. And sorrow? He freezes, trying to read what she will not, cannot speak. For anyone other than the two of them, the silence would be uncomfortable, oppressive even. For them, it is familiar and comforting.

He's thought of this moment a million times. What he would say with one more chance to get it right, but as she stands across from him, he is completely speechless.

It's not just her beauty that has captured his attention; it's the sensation of being in her presence again. Of feeling life re-entering his body. For the first time in a year he can breathe without gasping, look and really see, not just pretend.

That doesn't mean he's not angry with her for her misdeeds; going from their bed to another's without a second thought eats away at him, but she was a single woman with her own agency. And, she was the one who always walked out of his life after promising again and again that they would get through the hard times together. So yes, she needs to apologize too; she needs to earn his forgiveness too.

But right now after all this time, he only needs to be with her.

His legs find themselves and he takes one step, not the zombie slide that's been fooling people for so long, but an actual step and another and another until he's standing right in front of her.

He has to touch her, to feel her. He tentatively reaches out and grazes her hair; it feels the same, so soft and full of life and bounce. He gently tugs on a coil and lets go, watching as it springs back into place. He's missed it. He remembers her reaction when he touched her hair the first time and the look she gave him. "You do not touch a black woman's hair unless invited," she said with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous smile. When he snatched his hand away, she reached out and grabbed it, bringing it back to her head. "I'm inviting you."

That night, he asked a million questions about her hair, how she managed it, the differences between his and hers and she answered every single one with such patience. He loved when she wore it this way; it was a side of her that only he was privileged to see.

She gives him a smile and leans in to his touch. He lets his hands roam her hair as she sensually moves her head in concert with his fingertips, savoring their connection. He makes contact with her scalp and watches as her body responds to his touch. He massages her gently, resisting the urge to pull her closer; wanting desperately to kiss her.

He lets his hand drop, to her dismay, but he reconnects his body with hers, by running his hands along her arms, memorizing the new curves of her deltoids, biceps, triceps, suddenly turned on by muscles he'd often overlooked in a woman. On her, they only added to her perfection, feminine and sexy.

He does not let himself linger as his hands find hers, letting his thumb linger on the bare space a wedding ring would reside. He entwines their fingers and before he knows it, they're playing together, touching, gripping, moving along in sync, as though they can't believe they've found their way back together. He wants to kiss her fingertips, the backs of her hands, her palms, her wrists, and every other part of each arm, marking her for the world to know that she is his and he will not let her go again.

He can't explain why, but he reaches out and touches her stomach. So many nights he's imagined the flatness swelling with a life they created; her natural glow enhanced by pregnancy. How he would love their child. He spreads his fingers across her abdomen and they rest there; her breath catches and he knows she's thinking of the same thing; the beautiful life their love will create.

They stay in the moment. If things were simpler, if he were braver, if she were stronger, they would have the life they talked about during the late nights when they said, "Fuck the world!" Those nights when, in the comfort of the bed they shared in whichever city was their temporary home, they could fantasize about what would be. There was never a question back then; their love was pure and absolute. Now, it's still there and stronger than ever, but they're no longer naïve; they can no longer pretend another reality exists.

It's too much for them both. He feels a tear followed by several others, soaking through his shirt. Her tears or his? They want this so much; they want each other so much, the small moments like this that used to sustain them, now suck the life out of them because they know separation will follow if the pattern holds true.

He pulls his hands away, and reaches for her face. Even the great artists of the 17th and 18th centuries whose work hangs in the finest museums, could never have envisioned something as beautiful as she. When his eyes find hers, up close this time, he sees his pain reflected. He sees his undying love returned. He traces her lips with his thumbs, her cheeks with his forefingers, his palms take in her warmth and their foreheads meet.

No words need to be spoken as lovers reconnect. As they give and breathe life into one another. After a year of wishful thinking, revised history, of conversations that should have happened, they are, in this moment, one.

Seconds pass, which turn into minutes and there is quiet stillness. Unable to spend any more time without his lips on her, he kisses her forehead, eyelids, each cheek and finally, her lips. It's so gentle she almost questions whether it happened at all. He brings her hands to his lips, and kisses her palms as he looks into her eyes.

He knows what she needs. He takes her hands into his own and leads her to the sofa. The last time they were here in this space, she told him to run for a second term and win, and he did. But the sacrifices were too great. How fitting it's here, where they rediscover one another. He sits first, and pulls her onto his lap and into his arms, pulling her body close to his. She pulls him to her just as closely and holds tightly, for fear he may slip away again.

Tomorrow, tomorrow there will be words and tears. Tomorrow there will be love. Still. Tomorrow he will call his attorney and start working on his divorce. He will not tell her again. Olivia is a woman who has been let down too many times by meaningless words, she will only understand action. They have been to hell and back individually and together, and despite it all, they keep finding each other. It's meant to be. They are meant to be if they are to live.

Olivia leans into him, no space between, and buries her face in his neck. Her words are so quiet, he barely hears her. But he does and he smiles genuinely for the first time in 365 days. "I love you too," he says, as he brings his lips to hers, reacquainting himself with her lips and mouth. Finally, they are home.


End file.
